In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room.
There were no distinguishing features except one wall covered with small
index cards. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by
author or subject in alphabetical order. But these cards, which stretched
from the floor to the ceiling and left to right, had very different readings.

I picked a card and put it back quickly, shocked to realize that I recognized
some of the people on them. And then, without being told, I knew exactly where I
was. This lifeless room with its small cards that stretched for miles was a crude
catalog system of my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big
and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match.

A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I
began randomly grabbing cards and exploring their content. Some brought joy
and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I
would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

A card named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have Betrayed." The
titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read,"
"Lies I have Told," "Comfort I Have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed At," Some
were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I Have Yelled at My
Brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done In My Anger,"
"Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath At My Parents."

I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more
cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I'd hoped. I was overwhelmed by
the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had
the time in all my years to write each of these thousands or even millions of
cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own
handwriting and was signed with my own signature.

When I came to a card marked "Lusts of the Flesh" I felt a chill run through
my body. I pulled the card out only an inch, not willing to test its size,
and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to
think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke in me.

One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards! No one
must ever see this room! I have to destroy them." In an insane frenzy, I
yanked the drawer out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty and burn these
cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I
couldn't dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out one card,
only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the card to its slot. Leaning my
forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. I began to weep.
Sobs so deep that the hurt started in my stomach and shook
through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming
shame of it all. The rows of cards swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No
one must ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.

But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not
here. Oh, anyone, but Jesus. I watched helplessly as he began opening to read the cards.
I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look
at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes.
Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room.
He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger
me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again.
He walked over to me and put His arm around me. He could have said so many
things.

But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me. Then He got up and walked
back to the wall of cards. Starting at one end of the room, He took a card and
one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card.

"No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was, "No, no," as I
pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it
was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered
mine. It was written with His blood.

He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the
cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the
next instant it seemed I heard Him put down the last card and walk back to my
side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I stood
up and He led me out of the room.

There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.

“Having predestinated us unto the adoption of children by Jesus Christ to himself, according
to the good pleasure of his will, To the praise of the glory of his grace, wherein he hath made us
accepted in the beloved. In whom we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins,
according to the riches of his grace;” -Ephesians 1:5-7.